If the world was ending
by ClarkieTheCutie
Summary: A secret relationship should remain secret. That's all Draco Malfoy is saying. It's just another disagreement between two lovers who never stop fighting. But will this one end it?


She sat on his bed, her knees tucked up to her chin, her skinny arms wrapped around her legs. When he swept into his rooms, late that night, she looked up at him innocently.   
  
"What are you doing here?" he asked the sixteen year old.  
  
"I can't sleep." she replied softly.  
  
"Is that my problem? No. It's Potter's problem now."  
  
"You know I'm not dating Harry. I need to talk to you."  
  
"You should've talked to me while I still gave a damn."  
  
"I know you still give a damn. You don't get angry about things you don't give a damn about, Draco. You never have." she knew she was right. Knew she knew him better than his various and many trollops ever could. Pansy Parkinson was an idiot. Blaise Zabini was a conniving bitch. She was young and tainted, but she was no idiot, nor was she conniving.  
  
"Don't pretend to know me so well." he said icily.  
  
"Don't pretend to hate me."  
  
"I'm not pretending." he replied. She got up wordlessly, heading for the door,a single tear running down her face. He reached out a pale hand and grabbed her white-clad shoulder. "You have to stop this." He said, pushing her red locks out of her face. "You have to. It's not damned well fair. You can't leave me and then expect me to take care of you." He said feircely, shaking her slightly for effect. She looked up defiantly at him, her lips tightening. Her hand came up and fell onto his face with a horrendous 'SMACK'  
  
"Leave you! LEAVE YOU! I asked you to dance and you bloody well laughed in my faced. You called me a stupid bint in front of the ENTIRE SCHOOL!" She screamed at him, making him glad of the silencing charms he'd put in place ages ago.  
  
"You know perfectly well, Ginevra," he said in a cold, low voice. "That we had agreed not to tell anyone. Then you just come up and ask me to dance, infront of everyone? Infront of your BROTHER! I'm bloody well not a fucking Gryffindor, Ginevra! I don't stick my neck out. And YOU betrayed MY trust FIRST, got it?"  
  
"If you'd listened to any of my requests to be able to TELL people, this wouldn't have happened." she said stubbornly.  
  
"Goddamn it. This wasn't supposed to be important. Hell, it was supposed to be a bloody one night stand to get on my father's nerves!" He saw her mouth start to open. "And don't think I don't know that you were just using my to get at your damned giant of a brother. I'm not stupid, Ginevra."  
  
"So how did it end up being something important enough to protect? Important enough to protect but not be proud of. I couldn't do it, Draco. I got sick of waiting. I got sick of holding my breath." She pulled out of his grip and went to the door. Without turning around she whispered, "I love you, Drake. My dragon."  
  
He expelled his breath in a sigh when she left. He hadn't answered her. He wasn't going after her. He loved her, but he was a Malfoy. He knew he was in the right. Malfoys don't back down. As long as they're safe behind locked stone doors.  
  
She expelled her breath in a sigh as she left. She knew he wouldn't follow, wouldn't speak. She also knew she wouldn't go back. She was a Weasely and they didn't back down. Ever. Not even when the world was ending. Which she was currently sure it was.  
  
Years later, as she changed her third child's robes, waiting for her husband, Seamus, to walk in the door, she firmly turned her thoughts away from silver hair and grey eyes and empty promises. As her husband walked into their 'cosy' (meaning far too small) cottage and wrapped his strong arms around her, careful of her pregnant stomach, she plastered a smile on her face.  
  
She refused to remember the day that she'd heard, from gossip, that Draco Malfoy had been killed by Voldemort after being caught out as a double agent. Refused to feel the guilt she carried like a heavy weight in her stomach from knowing that if she hadn'tas good as called him a coward in her sixth year, he might be alive. He might not have stuck his neck out. He might be a death eater, he might have broken her heart. But at least he'd be alive.  
  
This way, he was dead, and her heart was slowly cracking under the weight of the farce she was living.  
  
But she was never going to admit she was wrong. Even if the world was ending. 


End file.
